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A  CALIFORNIAN 

THROUGH 

Connecticut  and  the  Berkshires 

BY 
R.  W.  OSBORN 


COPYRIGHT   1916 
BY   R.   W.   OSBORN 


To      . 

a  good  host 

C  F.  OSBORN 

of 
New  Haven,  Conn. 

this  volume  is  dedicated 
by  the  author 


FORE-WORD 


It  has  been  said  that  a  Californian  is  so  satiated  with  scen- 
ery, climate,  color  and  atmosphere  that  he  cannot  appreciate  the 
beauty  of  other  places. 

This  is  unfair  to  us  Californians,  it  is  untrue.  The  follow- 
ing pages  will  prove  how  untrue  it  is,  for  the  author  is  not  alone 
with  a  sense  of  beauty  in  other  parts  of  our  country,  wherever 
that  beauty  may  reveal  itself.  We  have  our  venerated  tradi- 
tions, but  we  do  not  feast  on  them.  We  have  a  carnival  of  color 
and  awe-inspiring  scenery,  but  he  who  truly  loves  these  things, 
loves  them  where'er  they  are  found.  That  part  of  the  country 
described  in  this  volume  conquered  the  writer  and  he  does 
not  hesitate  to  say  so. 

R.  W.  O. 

Berkeley,  November,  1916. 


355991 


r^ll^HIS  is  designed  as  a  simple  narrative,  so  simple  in 
SrJIB  fact,  that  the  author  makes  no  pretense  as  to  any 
value  to  be  attached  to  it,  other  than  the  one  of 
satisfaction  that  it  gives  in  its  recital.  The  trip 
consumed  five  days,  starting  from  New  Haven,  Connecticut, 
to  the  Berkshires  in  Massachusetts  and  return  to  New  Haven 
thence  to  New  York. 

While  there  were  many  good  souls  that  figured  in  the 
events  of  the  week,  yet  for  obvious  reasons  we  shall  confine 
the  characters  to  four:  Partner,  Bill,  Ernest  and  Rufus,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  "Brown  Sea-going  Jitney"  which  was  the  car. 

Why  expatiate  upon  the  characters  of  these  four.  Let 
the  recital  delineate  them. 

Rufus  was  probably  the  most  uncommunicative,  the  most 
taciturn  of  all  acquaintances  made  on  the  trip.  There  was  a 
naughty  little  twinkle  in  his  eyes  of  ashen  gray.  He  would 
nod  his  approval  of  certain  suggestions,  smile  most  appeal- 
ingly  and  there  was  something  about  him  that  inspired  com- 
panionship. He  did  not,  as  we  recall,  say  very  much  on  any 
subject.    Like  Ernest  he  was  a  good  listener. 

How  true  it  is  that  the  deepest  attachments  are  sometimes 
made  eternal  not  so  much  by  what  is  said  as  by  what  is  radiated. 
Bill  knows  this,  knows  it  to  be  a  psychological  fact,  for  more 
than  once  on  the  trip  did  he  seem  lost,  oblivious  of  all  the 
passing  show,  the  eternal  beautj/^  of  the  scene  around  him. 

Says  Pard,  "Bill,  what  are  you  thinking  about,  home  eh?" 
And  in  a  quiet,  yet  impelling,  response  he  answered  "Home." 
For  it  was  far  away  in  that  beautiful  city  of  Berkeley  which 
nestles  the  hillside,  where  are  those  whom  he  loves ;  and  there 
was  one  there  whose  propinquity  to  Bill  was  the  inspiration 
for  the  good  that  was  his.  He  often  said  that  silent  communion 
with  her  was  worth  more  in  the  contentment  and  happiness  of 
life  than  could  be  found  in  the  richness  of  converse  with  a 
Madame  de  Stael. 

But  then  each  has  some  one  to  conserve  that  spiritual 
link  betv/een  two  likely  souls.  With  Bill  it  was  his  wife  and 
children,  who  formed  a  chain  forged  not  by  the  mythical  hand 
of  a  Vulcan,  but  by  an  inscrutable  Providence. 

"Look  Bill,"  Partner  was  forever  disturbing  the  continuity 
o£  such  thoughts  by  calling  attention  to  some  noted  place  of 
beauty,  "that  is  Bligame  Cottage.  Say!  if  that's  a  'cottage' 
what  would  you  call  a  mansion?" 


A;-^iv::?-H,.J 


Sure  enough  what  would  you?  There  in  stately  grandeur 
stood  a  mansion  surmounting  a  knoll  overlooking  a  vast 
estate,  with  its  rich  carpet  of  green  that  stretched  before  the 
home,  like  a  Persian  rug  with  a  field  of  single  tone  and  bor- 
dered by  a  rich  design  such  as  the  Kirman  or  the  Shiraz. 

This  home,  magnificent  as  a  picture,  was  none  the  less  like 
a  beautiful  woman,  richly  gowned  and  jeweled,  whose  beauty, 
however,  was  according  to  the  conventional  lines  of  art,  but 
without  a  spiritual  mark  to  denote  a  soul.    A  Niobe  in  tears. 

There  are  many,  many  of  these  beautiful  homes  which 
dazzle  the  eye,  but  appeal  to  the  mind  as  of  purposeless  exist- 
ence. 

"Hard  on  to  port"  or  something  like  it,  "but  steer  the 
craft  to  the  regular  channel." 

"Quite  true,  to  the  channel"  says  Bill,  and  so  we  proceed 
with  our  story  and  omit  these  excursions  into  the  Gulf  of 
Speculation. 

Our  first  night  in  New  Haven  was  by  no  means  a  Baccha- 
nalian bout  nor  was  it  a  Chautauqua  meeting,  but  as  truth  pays 
homage  to  the  gods,  it  must  be  recorded  that  the  evening  was 
a  round  of  pleasure  among  congenial  and  fitting  souls,  and 
you  will  find  them  in  New  Haven.  Partner  is  a  good  enter- 
tainer, he  seems  to  know  how  to  search  the  very  heart  for  its 
yearnings,  although  not  infrequently  throughout  the  evening 
he  would  sit  like  a  king  without  a  crown,  his  sceptre  being  a 
smile.  He  would  listen  complacently  to  Bill's  recital  of  the 
beauties  of  California  and  was  alv/ays  playfully  tolerant  of 
human  short-comings  when  it  came  to  politics.  Partner  was 
a  Wilsonian  Democrat  while  Bill — might  have  been  a  "green- 
backer"  because,  as  he  often  said,  he  favored  lots  of  money. 

But  to  the  evening! 

Bill  had  been  recounting  how  once  upon  a  time  when  he 
and  his  wife  had  closed  their  home  for  a  few  months  and  left 
word  with  neighbors  that  if  at  any  time  a  light  should  be 
seen  within  the  house  to  ring  for  the  police,  that  something 
would  be  wrong;  and  how  inadvertently  upon  returning,  the 
lights  were  turned  on,  and  having  failed  to  give  the  neighbors 
warning,  the  unexpected  happened.  Of  course,  it  was  a  good 
story,  but,  bless  your  soul,  you  cannot  outwit  the  East ;  and  is  it 
not  strange  that  human  nature  is  pretty  much  the  same  whether 
in  New  Haven  or  in  San  Francisco?  But  truth  outrides  fic- 
tion and  the  Major  remarked  (and  by  the  way  we  will  des- 


ignate  him  *'the  Major"  in  order  to  contradistinguish  him 
from  the  other  guests,  and  again  parenthetically,  the  Major 
was  one  of  the  Police  Commissioners  of  his  town)  that  he 
and  his  wife  had  done  likewise  but  with  this  exception,  that 
a  squad  of  policemen  came  to  his  home  and  battered  the 
front  door  making  things  pretty  lively  for  the  Major,  who 
eventually  made  known  his  identity. 

"Well,"  as  one  of  the  sweet  bits  of  femininity  remarked: 
"If  we  do  not  start  home  it  will  verge  perilously  close  to 
the  Vee  sma'  hours,' "  and  the  next  day  was  to  commence 
the  trip  that  was  to  be  the  raison  d^etre  of  this  narrative. 


II. 

We  started  from  New  Haven  about  10  o'clock,  taking 
the  road  by  Wallingford  and  Meriden  to  Hartford,  which  lat- 
ter place  was  the  objective  point  for  luncheon.  The  road  is 
an  excellent  one,  quite  in  keeping  with  the  eastern  reputa- 
tion for  good  roads.  To  a  Westerner  the  trip  lends  additional 
interest  in  view  of  the  number  of  "Ye  Olden"  homes  along 
the  highway.  "Erected  in  1650,"  1710,  1750,  etc.,  are  quite 
ordinary  observations  and  one  can,  with  a  little  imagination, 
picture  many  scenes  of  that  period.  As  you  approach  the 
historic  city  of  Hartford  one  is  impressed  with  the  fact  that  the 
city  occupies  the  low-lands,  for  indeed  you  descend  quite  a 
bit  into  the  hollow  of  a  bowl.  But  the  city  is  beautiful  and 
interesting  and  if  one  be  at  all  acquainted  there,  the  conven- 
tional New  England  reserve  is  not  at  all  evident.  A  whole- 
some Americanism  pervades  the  place,  a  quiet  dignity  is  no- 
ticeable and  the  air  is  redolent  of  a  good  old-fashioned  sin- 
cerity. 

We  luncheoned  at  the  Hueblein,  where  we  partook  of 
more  than  a  modest  refection,  but  of  the  palatable  viandry, 
the  Golden  Bantam  corn  was  the  most  seductive.  The  menu 
consisted  of  clams  on  the  half  shell,  some  corn,  dainty  lamb 
chops,  some  corn,  a  salad,  then  some  corn.  Oh,  well,  never 
mind  the  remainder,  for  corn  was  king,  and  with  a  knightly 
courtesy,  reverence  was  paid  to  the  king.  Long  live  the 
king! 

After  a  few  calls  on  friends  the  trip  was  continued  by 
taking  a  northwesterly  course  through  New  Hartford,  Nor- 
folk, Canaan,  and  then  Ashley  Falls  to  Sheffield,  all  a  beau- 
tiful country,  with  fine  roads.  As  you  approach  Ashley 
Falls  the  Housatonic  River  unfolds  through  its  sinuous  curves 
and  from  there  on  through  to  Great  Barrington  the  country 
is  simply  entrancing. 

Sheffield,  they  say,  is  the  oldest  incorporated  city  in  the 
Berkshires  and  the  record  reveals  the  fact  that  it  was  pur- 
chased from  an  Indian  named  Konkpot,  or  something  like  it. 

The  price  paid  was  a  little  gold,  a  few  barrels  of  cider  and 
then  some  rum — probably  it  was  the  intrinsic  value  of  the 
latter  that  sealed  the  bargain. 

Great  Barrington  is  a  pretty  place  with  many  notably 
beautiful  homes  and  gardens,  wide  streets  tree-lined,  and  it  is 

8 


claimed  but  not  proven  that  Bryant  wrote  there  his  Thana- 
topsis,  while  serving  as  town  clerk,  enough  to  make  Barring- 
ton  great. 

But  Stockbridge  is  more  impressive  to  the  traveler;  de- 
void of  business  aspect,  it  invites  a  feeling  of  refined  ex- 
clusion, not,  however,  in  any  opprobrious  sense.  There  you 
will  find  many  excellent  examples  of  rich  colonial  architecture 
with  no  prearranged  or  set  system  in  laying  out  the  village. 
It  is  probably  this  unconventional  irregularity  that  is  so  im- 
pressive. The  highway,  for  it  is  most  unpoetic  to  style  it  a 
street,  is  artistic  in  contour  and  suggestive  of  very  old  age, 
an  aspect  that  does  so  much  to  lend  enchantment  to  parts  of 
New  England.  The  church  sits  serenely  midst  a  clump  of 
stately  elms  which  forms  the  groined  arch  for  the  richly  car- 
peted aisle  of  green  lawn.  Then  the  eye  is  detained  for  a  mo- 
ment to  feast  upon  the  pure  colonialism  of  the  Jonathan  Ed- 
wards house,  again  to  become  riveted  to  the  beautiful  Sar- 
geant  Memorial  Tower  more  like  a  campanile,  with  a  rich 
clinging  vine  to  lend  a  poetic  beauty  to  its  chaste  architec- 
ture.   The  clock  in  the  roof  dormer  suggests — 

"Son,  observe  the  time  and  fly  from  evil." 
although  it  would  seem  impossible  for  evil  thoughts  to  con- 
gregate around  the  village. 

The  town  sits  close  to  the  river  which  lends  additional 
charm  to  the  scene,  but  after  all  it  is  the  refinement,  the  cul- 
tivated atmosphere  and  the  charming  sense  of  laissez-faire 
that  holds  in  rapture  the  truant  tourist. 

Before  reaching  Stockbridge,  however,  the  eye  observes 
Monument  Mountain  replete  with  legendary  lore  and  made 
more  famous  by  Bryant — 

"There   is   a  precipice 
That  seems  a  fragment  of  some  mighty  wall 
Built  by  the  hand  that  fashioned  the  old  world.*' 

The  stone  cairn  erected  by  the  Indians  was  the  object  of 
religious  ceremonials  of  the  tribes  of  long  ago  and  pilgrim- 
age to  this  shrine  is  continued  by  the  redmen. 

It  was  here,  so  the  legend  runs,  that  an  Indian  maid, 
who  loved  most  passionately  a  cousin  of  the  blood,  died  lest 
the  incestuous  love  should  bring  her  shame. 

From  Stockbridge  the  traveler  can  tour  the  scenic  road 
known  as  Jacob's  Ladder  or  keep  on  north  to  Lenox,  which 
latter  we  did. 


If  you  can  picture  the  transition  of  mind  upon  leaving  a 
company  of  intellectual  people  and  immediately  entering  a 
richly  appointed  room  graced  by  women  of  gorgeous  rai- 
ment, be-jewelled  and  around  them  all  of  the  attributes  of 
wealth,  one  can  at  least  comprehend  the  difference  between 
these  two  places.  Leave  a  Madame  de  Stael  and  be  shown  a 
priceless  statue  of  an  inanimate  Venus. 

Well,  as  it  is  related,  Stockbridge  excites  the  deepest 
feelings  of  the  soul,  Lenox  appeals  to  the  senses. 

At  one  time  in  its  history  Lenox  was  the  rendezvous  for 
literary  people.  Hawthorne  lived  there,  wrote  there ;  but  to 
the  passerby  it  no  longer  pays  tribute  to  the  intellectual  as- 
pects of  life,  but  rather  to  the  refinements  to  which  wealth 
pays  homage. 

It  is  in  the  air,  the  very  atmosphere  is  redolent  of  all  the 
uses  and  abuses  of  wealth.  It  is  simply  magnificent.  Venus 
de  Milo  stands  there  all  right  but  there  is  no  soul  within  her 
marble  form.    The  ivory  image  of  Galatea 

" —  is  beautiful  indeed,  but  cold." 

No  Pygmalion  to  ask  that  it  be  given  a  soul. 

Knoll  after  knoll  is  enriched  by  a  mansion  of  wonderful 
beauty  overlooking  the  charming  valley  with  repeating  in- 
tervales, surrounded  by  trees  full  open  with  their  thousands 
of  leaves  nodding  in  the  breeze,  the  massive  oaks  with  their 
gnarled  limbs  and  the  undulating  low  hills  following  each 
other  like  the  ocean  waves  and  covered  with  lawns  of  a  green 
of  greens.  The  vision  is  now  obscured  by  a  clump  of  trees, 
then  an  open  vista  and  this  in  turn  closed  by  the  hushed  se- 
clusion of  a  tiny  forest.    It  is  rapture  but  sensual. 

It  is  art  in  its  fullness,  but  lacks  the  spirit  which  true  art 
reveals. 

Leaving  Lenox  it  was  not  long  before  we  reached  Pitts- 
field  for  the  night.  Approaching  the  city  the  sun  was  sinking 
in  the  West,  but  the  scenes  of  the  day  were  still  rich  in  their 
tones  of  warmth  and  it  seemed  cruel  to  leave  them,  for  as 
the  day  weds  the  night,  in  the  passing  we  cling  closer  to  the 
light.  We  were  in  moods  of  faith  and  when  the  night  closed 
all  view  to  that  which  had  been,  it  was  the  living  expectation 
of  the  morrow  that  fed  the  mind.    Good  night. 


10 


III. 


Calmed  by  a  sleep  of  sweet  repose,  as  tenants  of  a  house 
of  clay,  we  vacated  the  premises  and  moved;  had  it  been  a 
waking  hour  it  would  have  been  a  beautiful  reverie. 

Then  some  doubtful  dreams  moved  by  the  current  of 
waking  thoughts,  ceased.  We  had  been  living  in  a  transcend- 
ent idealism  of  the  preceding  day  and  it  was  no  small  disap- 
pointment to  be  jarred  by  the  clang  of  the  bells  on  the  street 
cars  at  Pittsfield;  however,  to  be  up  and  doing,  and  doing 
comprehended  not  only  the  cold  bath  but  a  shave  as  well. 
When  we  knocked  on  Partner's  door  there  was  no  response 
and  peeking  in  we  observed  there  lying  supinely  on  the  rest- 
ful couch,  the  author  of  our  outing. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  get  up?"  said  Bill. 

"Never  fear,  never  fear,"  came  the  response  from  under 
the  covers.  However,  it  was  not  long  before  we  had  break- 
fasted and  taken  a  fresh  start  toward  Williamstown  and  the 
Mohawk  Trail.  We  rode  through  a  marvelously  beautiful 
country  of  excellent  roads,  and  reached  North  Adams  about 
10  o'clock.  North  Adams  is  essentially  a  commercial  city, 
a  manufacturing  town.  Textile  mills  are  there  in  plenty  and 
it  was  with  no  regret  that  we  made  a  sharp  turn  to  observe 
the  sign  "Mohawk  Trail."  Ernest  had  started  his  machine 
so  as  to  carry  the  grade  on  the  high  and  was  making  it  well 
although  the  grade  is  rather  a  steep  one,  when  a  fruit  vender 
decided  at  an  inauspicious  moment  to  turn  his  rig  to  the  left 
which  required  our  chauffeur  to  be  "Johnnie-on-the-spot." 
Ernest  made  a  flank  movement,  a  slight  detour  and  then  pro- 
ceeded up  the  grade,  a  little  put  out  however,  as  he  was  com- 
pelled, before  reaching  the  summit,  to  go  into  the  interme- 
diate. This  trail  is  the  original  one  laid  out  by  the  Indians 
long  before  that  part  of  Massachusetts  had  a  reputation.  En- 
gineers cut  a  shelf  in  the  side  of  the  hills  so  as  to  get  an  un- 
obstructed view  practically  throughout  the  drive.  Once  in 
a  while  there  was  a  sharp  turn  or  a  generous  curve,  but 
usually  long  stretches  of  fairly  straight  road  and,  as  Partner 
says,  "some  road."  There  is  an  ever  changing  panorama  and 
yet  a  complete  harmony  in  the  scene,  like  impressions  that 
cluster  about  one  reacting  upon  one  another  until  the  mind 
contains  one  harmonious  thought.  The  Berkshires  unlike 
our  western  scenery   are   thoroughly   co-related,  there  are  no 

11 


defiant  breaches  in  their  continuity,  not  unlike  a  poem  that 
tells  you  its  story  simply,  beautifully  and  poetically  without 
making  any  excursions  into  the  unusual  or  departing  in  any 
sense  from  its  text. 

As  we  were  speeding  around  a  curve  in  the  road  we 
noticed  many  motor  cars  ahead,  from  which  the  passengers 
had  alighted  to  view  the  enchanting  scene  from  the  point 
called  "Hairpin  Curve." 

A  beautiful  sight! 

"Hello,  Ben!"  said  Partner,  and  this  salutation  was  ad- 
dressed to  a  young  fellow  of  about  fifteen  summers,  who  be- 
tween school  periods  and  home,  made  his  fortune  by  selling 
postcards  and  banners  to  the  tourists. 

Ben  says  that  his  business  nets  him  an  average  of 
thirty  dollars  a  week;  one  week  in  summer  his  receipts 
reached  seventy-two  dollars.  Some  business  for  a  kid  of 
fifteen,  eh? 

"Do  you  go  to  school,  Ben?"  ventured  Bill 

"Sure,  and  in  vacation  and  after  school  I  sell  the  cards." 

Of  course,  we  bought  some.  That  is  Partner  did,  for  he 
had  a  way  of  impressing  his  guests  with  the  fact  that  he  is 
the  host  and  "some  host,  believe  me,"  says  Bill. 

Well,  it  is  recorded  the  cards  were  purchased,  and  Bill 
started  a  little  conversation. 

"To  whom  do  you  sell  the  most,"  and  quickly  Ben's  ex- 
pressive eyes  scintillated. 

"Oh,  gee,  I  am  a  wise  guy  and  only  offer  once  to  the  big 
cars,"  then,  "you  see,  mister,  the  big  and  expensive  cars  usu- 
ally have  some  old,  rich  guy  who  is  covered  all  over  with 
robes,  and  in  charge  of  a  lady  nurse.  They  are  crotchety  and 
have  a  grouch  so  I  give  them  the  go-by." 

"Well,"  questioned  Bill,  "who,  then,  are  your  best  cus- 
tomers?" 

"Oh,  the  cheap  cars,  mostly  Fords,  are  my  best  custom- 
ers, excepting  my  friend  here  (pointing  to  Partner),  who  is 
a  mighty  good  customer.  Gee,  he  must  give  lots  of  cards 
away."  Then  after  a  pause  he  continued,  "I'd  know  that  car 
anywhere,  it's  a  beauty  all  right." 

Ben  not  only  knew  a  good  car  but  had  a  keen  sense  of 
beauty. 

Now  there  is  some  psychology  in  Ben's  observation  about 
people,  for  how  true  it  is  that  very  often  with  tourists  motor 

12 


driven,  one  will  encounter  the  millionaire  broken  in  health, 
taking  a  ride  with  a  nurse  and  maybe  some  of  the  family  as 
a  precaution  against  what  the  French  say  is  "the  unexpected." 
Two  interesting  studies,  psychological  and  socialogical. 

But  the  Hairpin  Curve! 

The  Berkshire  hills  are  not  noted  for  their  grandeur,  it 
would  not  be  the  proper  word  to  use  in  a  descriptive  sense. 
They  are  beautiful  almost  beyond  compare.  They  incite  the 
poetic  instinct  rather  than  awe  and  for  that  reason  the  euph- 
onious name  "Mohawk  Trail"  should  never  have  been  dese- 
crated by  introducing  so  unpoetic  a  name  as  Hairpin  Curve 
to  any  part  of  it.  True,  that  would  probably  suggest  itself 
to  the  mind  of  the  engineer  who,  by  the  way,  had  to  work 
out  some  mathematical  problems  in  making  that  bend,  but 
should  this  not  be  termed  Inspiration  Point?  for  that  is  just 
what  it  is.  You  drive  along  a  beautiful  road  lined  with  elms, 
oaks,  birches  and  other  trees  too  numerous  to  mention,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  clinging  shrubs,  the  ivy,  sumac,  golden 
rod  and  the  aster,  when  all  at  once  you  come  to  this 
curve  and  a  scene  of  beauty  lies  before  you.  From  that  point 
you  look  into  the  States  of  Vermont,  Connecticut  and  New 
York,  and  observe  numerous  villages  quietly  browsing  in  the 
lawns  of  nature.  The  undulating  hills  give  a  quaint  and  pic- 
turesque touch  in  their  rational  continuity  not  infrequently 
contrasted  and  in  the  later  fall  must  present  a  picture  of  in- 
describable beauty.  We  were  there  e'er  Jack  Frost  had 
pinched  the  cheek  of  the  stately  elm  or  the  maple,  but  he  had 
none  the  less  stealthily  crept  along  the  ground  and  in  his 
merciless  delight  brought  the  first  blush  to  the  poison  ivy 
and  the  sumac.  Proceeding  as  far  as  Charlemont  we  then 
retraced  our  steps  to  North  Adams  thence  to  Williamstown. 

As  related,  the  impression  indescribably  fixed  upon  our 
minds  at  Stockbridge  reached  its  superlative  degree  at  the 
quaint  old  college  town.  It  beggars  description.  Apart  from 
its  scholastic  atmosphere  and  its  tutored  refinement,  there  is 
a  culture  that  one  inevitably  feels  and  not  only  is  this  in  the 
air,  not  only  evidenced  in  its  stately  and  beautiful  buildings 
but  even  the  tourists  seem  impressed  with  it  and  the  wait- 
ers in  the  hotel  were  marked  by  it.  You  cannot  enter 
Williamstown  without  departing  with  a  feeling  better  for 
having  been  there,  and  whether  in  man  or  place  such  a  trait 
is  an  invaluable  asset  and  a  beautiful  heritage. 

13 


It  is  another  story  to  expatiate  upon  the  age  of  the  col- 
lege, its  quaint  history,  how  a  legacy  was  left  with  which  it 
was  endowed,  that  Garfield  was  a  student  there  and  his  son 
now  its  president — all  that  is  apart  from  the  picture  unfolded 
to  the  visitor.  It  is  one  continuous  lawn  and  one  almost  for- 
gets that  it  is  broken  here  and  there  by  streets.  It  is  the  most 
beautiful  college  campus  that  Bill  had  seen. 

As  we  alighted  before  the  main  entrance  to  the  Greylock 
Hotel  Partner  was  heard  to  remark : 

"Bill,  I  don't  know  how  you  feel,  but  my  pantry  is 
empty,"  and  we  proceeded  to  the  dining-room  to  replenish  our 
larders.  As  is  previously  related,  the  maids  and  waiters 
were  an  uncommon  lot  of  delightful  femininity,  much  prettier 
and  better  mannered  than  some  of  the  guests,  for  we  saw  one 
woman  and  her  daughters  who  stood  out  in  striking  contrast 
with  the  culture  and  refinement  of  the  place,  but  as  we  were 

informed  they  were  from and  quite  wealthy.    But  to  our 

muttons ! 

After  passing  about  two  and  a  half  hours  at  Williamstown 
we  proceeded  on  our  journey  toward  Pawnal  and  Bennington, 
by  the  White  Oaks  Road  over  which  the  Berkshire  warriors 
marched  to  fight  the  British  at  Bennington,  both  old-fashioned 
Vermont  towns,  the  latter,  as  the  reader  well  knows,  is  quite 
historic  and  with  a  real  revolutionary  flavor. 

Well,  it  is  about  time  to  consider  our  return  to  the  fas- 
cinating college  town,  thence  on  to  Pittsfield. 

At  this  juncture  we  crossed  the  State  line  between  Mas- 
sachusetts and  Vermont.  It  is  claimed  that  an  error  was 
made  in  the  survey  of  this  line  and  through  which  error  Wil- 
liams College  was  placed  in  Massachusetts  instead  of  Ver- 
mont. Stupid  of  the  surveyor  but  how  fortunate  for  Massa- 
chusetts, potentially  illustrating  the  law  of  compensation. 

The  luncheon  at  the  Greylock  was  excellent  and  the  trav- 
elers having  partaken  sumptuously.  Bill  was  inclined  to  be 
drowsy,  in  fact  two  or  three  times  Partner  noticed  that  Bill 
was  in  the  Land  of  Nod. 

It  was  not  at  all  uncommon  to  pass  place  after  place  that 
Partner  would  designate  as  a  battleground  or  the  scene  of 
some  Indian  massacre  or  where  interesting  legendary  scenes 
were  enacted. 

We  drove  on  and  on  passing  spots  of  matchless  beauty, 
here  a  hill  of  wondrous  color  and  there  a  secluded  tarn,  while 

14 


further  on  stood  the  noble  features  of  old  Greylock.  The  ear 
would  catch  the  music  of  the  gentle  runnel,  the  eye  arrested 
by  the  enchantment  of  a  fugitive  bunch  of  autumnal  color,  the 
nose  scenting  the  ambrosia  of  the  gods.  Who  could  view  it 
all  without  a  feeling  of  sanctity  and  when  thought  wings  it- 
self to  a  Parnassian  height  and  then  takes  on  additional 
lustre — is  it  surprising  that  Bill  was  quiet?  Not  pensive,  but 
entranced.  Then  we  came  to  a  knoll  overlooking  a  hollow 
green  beautifully  affected  by  the  lowering  tones  of  the  sun- 
set. A  hollow,  shall  we  call  it,  the  hollow  of  God's  hand? 
For  such  it  was;  or  as  the  Spanish  would  style  it,  La  Palma 
de  la  Mano  de  Dios.    What  means  it  all,  whence,  whither? 

Partner  requested  Ernest  to  stop  the  machine  for  a  mo- 
ment that  we  might  linger  a  little  with  the  scene  so  entranc- 
ingly  set  before  us  and  then — 

As  if  silently  springing  from  the  rock-ribbed  side  of  the 
lonely  trail,  the  stately  form  of  an  Indian  appeared.  Clad  in 
the  meager  skins  that  draped  the  forms  of  the  tribes  of  that 
period,  he  was  followed  by  another,  erect  and  bronzed  and 
then  a  third  with  face  lined  and  marked  as  if  by  the  storms  of 
life.  These  three  moved  silently  across  the  trail,  entered  the 
thicket  on  the  opposite  side  and  disappeared. 

Then  came  a  maiden,  richly  clad  in  skins  and  beads,  a 
wealth  of  hair  hanging  in  braids.  Her  eyes  were  as  black  as 
the  night  in  a  starless  winter  month,  and  by  her  side  a  buck 
of  some  ten  summers,  stood  intently. 

They  rested  in  the  trail  while  she  crooned  an  Indian  love 
song,  the  motif  of  which  seemed  to  change  suddenly  into  that 
of  the  dirge  carrying  its  weird  and  doleful  notes  through  the 
hills,  and  then  returning  joined  the  winnowing  of  the  leaves 
in  a  sweet  cadence  until  only  its  memory  lingered. 

At  its  conclusion  she  paused,  looked  into  the  receptive 
eyes  of  the  lad  and  commenced  to  speak.  She  told  him  of  the 
long,  long  night,  how  the  Great  Spirit  threw  a  ball  of  fire  into 
the  sky  and  then  the  light  of  day  came  forth.  She  told  him 
that  the  country  was  flat,  that  there  were  no  trees  to  gladden 
the  eye,  no  rivers  to  quench  the  thirst  or  moisten  the  hard 
ground,  no  animals  or  fish  for  food. 

One  day  a  vulturous  tribe,  unbidden  and  merciless,  like 
the  fiendish  rush  of  the  storm,  descended  from  the  clouds, 
sprang  upon  their  prey  and  killed  the  tribe,  all  save  one  lonely 
maiden  whom  they  did  not  see  and  who  escaped  in  the  dark-- 

15 


ness.  She  lay  motionless  on  the  blood-soaked  ground  where, 
numbed  by  the  pall  of  death,  this  poor  infinite  soul  was 
chastened  by  the  sight  of  those  shrouds  of  clay,  and  after 
their  malefic  mission  was  at  an  end,  she  arose  and  lifting  her 
arms  to  the  Great  Spirit,  pleaded  to  Him  to  protect  her. 

Her  lamentations  were  loud  and  the  Great  Spirit  heard. 

She  asked  Him  to  rear  around  her  great  walls  or  hills  to 
serve  as  a  mighty  fortress,  and  within  which  she  could  be 
safe.  She  prayed  that  between  these  hills  might  flow  the 
gentle  streams  to  nourish  the  land,  and  to  carpet  the  hillside 
and  glades  with  a  beautiful  verdure.  As  she  closed  her  in- 
vocation the  Great  Spirit  answered. 

The  ground  began  gently  to  move  and  swell,  at  first  but 
little  hills  appeared  as  though  the  earth  had}  pressed  its 
shoulders  forth ;  but  gradually  they  pushed  their  granite  forms 
toward  the  sky  and  mountains  were  formed.  These  were 
her  battlements,  the  aegis  of  her  protection.  Then  dainty 
green  petals  began  to  break  through  the  earth,  displacing  its 
sterile  crust,  yielding  a  most  beautiful  carpet  to  ease  the  foot 
and  sooth  the  eye,  and  flowers  and  ferns  nestled  against  the 
floor  of  the  valley,  while  tall  and  stately  trees  shot  up  here 
and  there  and  came  so  fast  that  in  kind  and  color  she  could 
not  count  them. 

The  Great  Spirit  felt  sad  for  the  little  squaw  and  shed 
tears  for  her  suffering  and  these  tears  found  their  way  by 
stealth  down  the  hillside,  idly  dropping  at  first,  then  gently 
flowing  onward  and  onward,  until  in  myriads  they  sought 
companionship  with  each  other,  singing  their  sweet  luUabys 
when  they  met  and  were  merged  into  one  big  "peaceful 
river." 

When  she  beheld  all  this,  her  eyes  were  moist  and  her 
heart  was  full.  The  mountains  gave  her  strength  to  defend 
her  heritage.  The  trees  as  they  reared  their  tips  to  the  skies, 
led  her  to  the  Great  Spirit,  and  beneath  their  leafy  coats  there 
couched  the  forms  of  life  that  were  to  be  her  food.  The  hills 
in  their  mantle  of  green,  the  trees  tall  and  stately,  the  idly 
flowing  waters  all  sang  in  symphonic  tones — she  had  tri- 
umphed and  her  paeans  rang  through  the  glade  and  o'er  the 
hills  and  into  the  crags  of  the  mountain  tops,  until  the  bril- 
liant scene  sank  in  the  coloring  of  the  west,  leaving  in  its 
wake  the  soft  light  to  blend  its  parting  kisses  with  the  on- 
coming night. 

16 


And  this  was  the  legend  of  the  hills  that  she  recited  to  the 
young  warrior.  In  its  benevolent  deception  she  encouraged 
the  redman's  soul  to  go  forth  to  the  mountains,  the  hills,  the 
trees  and  the  "peaceful  river." 

And  then  came  the  rude  awakening.  The  pale  face  in- 
vaded these  hills  and  the  echo  of  her  paean  has  faded  into  the 
song  of  the  thrush.  But  who  knows  if  the  thunder  of  the 
hills  be  not  her  voice  calling  upon  the  Great  Spirit  for  re- 
demptive justice.     Aye,  who  knows? 


17 


IV. 

The  Hoosac  (peaceful  river)  is  a  beautiful  mountain 
stream  moving  silently  along  through  the  gently  rolling 
hills,  then  stretching  out  in  the  open  glade,  finally  forcing  its 
onward  march  through  a  cleft  in  the  Taconic  range  as  if  to 
divide  the  battlements  of  the  warring  tribes.  About  here,  en- 
sconced in  the  recesses  of  the  hills,  was  a  single  grave,  silent, 
storyless  and  as  if  guarded 

"By  Nebo's  lonely  Mountain" — 

But  there  is.  a  little  story,  or  legend  as  we  shall  term  it,  about 
this  spot,  for  here  love  and  jealousy  played  their  parts. 

Bena  was  a  lovely  little  Indian  maiden,  the  daughter  of 
Wawbeek  the  invincible  chief.  She  was  in  love  with  Osseo 
a  young  buck  of  admitted  courage  and  fine  form  and  face, 
Osseo  loved  Bena  with  a  love  that  only  big  souls  possess. 

They  would  meet  at  eventide  and  linger  till  the  mystery 
of  the  purple  tones  of  night  passed  under  the  cloak  of  Erebus. 
One  evening  she  came  as  usual  and  waited  for  her  lover,  but 
he  did  not  come,  and  she  looked  and  gazed  through  the  awful 
reaches  of  an  endless  horizon  and  then,  beyond  to  an  infinite 
solitude,  but  Osseo  did  not  come.  The  shades  of  night  op- 
pressed her  and  in  the  anguish  of  her  soul  she  made  her  way 
back  to  her  tepee  where  a  peaceful  sleep  might  still  her  rest- 
less spirit  until  the  breaking  of  the  day. 

Shada  was  another  squaw  belonging  to  the  same  tribe,  a 
vixen  and  the  spirit  of  jealousy  incarnate.  Shada  loved  Osseo 
but  he  did  not  return  to  her  that  which  she  gave  to  him.  He 
loved  her  not.  He  knew,  however,  that  Shada  loved  him  and 
he  aimed  honorably  to  avoid  her  advances. 

Now  it  seems  that  Kwasind,  a  buck  of  great  reputation 
as  a  fighter  and  an  invincible  foe,  was  also  a  suitor  for 
the  hand  of  Bena,  not  that  he  particularly  loved  her  but  he 
was  possessed  of  a  disposition  that  would  do  most  anything 
to  preclude  Osseo  from  reaching  his  goal.  Such  natures  are 
frequent  in  life  and  probably  are  designed  by  Providence  as 
a  reciprocal  foil  for  the  more  earnest  natures. 

Shada  and  Kwasind  were  capable  of  good  team  work, 
their  moral  obliquities  were  evenly  divided  and  each  was  an 
adept  in  the  art  of  deception.  Shada  probably  was  the  more 
capable  of  the  two  and  being  a  woman  seemed  to  hold  Kwas- 

18 


ind's  mind  somewhat  in  subjection,  at  least  she  could  teach 
him  some  things  in  the  art  of  intrigue. 

She  resolved  to  induce  her  associate  in  these  delicate 
brutalities,  to  make  ardent  love  to  Bena  and  if  successful,  the 
path  to  the  heart  of  Osseo  would  then  be  open  to  her.  With 
a  surging  sea  of  human  passions  she  approached  her  prey 
and  carefully  unfolded  her  plan  in  order  not  to  let  him  indulge 
a  suspicion  of  her  real  motive.  Kwasind  agreed,  he  seemed 
to  comprehend  her  by  an  inverted  reflection  and  with  a  keen 
appetite  for  exploration  into  the  byways  of  her  mental  irregu- 
larities, he  proceeded  to  the  shrine  of  Bena's  love. 

It  was  a  fleeting  romance. 

She  loved  but  one  and  that  one  was  Osseo.  She  did  not 
love  Kwasind  and  she  told  him  so. 

When  he  reported  to  Shada  how  impotent  had  been  his 
effort,  she  met  him  with  an  accusing  stare,  but  he,  unmoved 
by  storm  or  tempest,  smiled  and  only  smiled. 

Undaunted,  Shada  seized  a  new  thought  and  resolved  to 
approach  the  chief  with  a  suggestion  that  for  the  morrow's 
battle  he  offer  a  prize  to  the  buck  who  shall  prove  most 
valiant  in  the  field.  Well  she  knew  that  Osseo,  steeped  in 
love  would  not  enter  the  battle  and  prove  himself  equal  to 
his  former  glory,  but  Kwasind  would,  and  when,  as  it  must, 
the  laurel  shall  fall  on  him,  he  may  name  his  wish  and  the 
chief  will  grant  it. 

When  she  regaled  in  eloquent  words  the  fighting  quali- 
ties of  his  tribe  and  suggested  that  to  the  victor  Wawbeek 
should  grant  his  wish,  she  knew  that  such  request  could  not 
be  denied. 

The  chief,  all  attention,  approved  her  plan  and  Kwasind 
with  cunning  alacrity  joined  Shada  in  the  intrigue. 

Accordingly  the  bucks  were  called  together  and  the  chief 
exhorted  them  to  victory  and  promised  to  grant  any  wish  or 
request  that  the  victor  might  ask. 

It  was  this  pow-wow  that  detained  Osseo  and  that  was 
why  he  did  not  venture  forth  to  the  trysting  place  to  meet  his 
love. 

The  battle  took  place  along  the  Hoosac  River,  the  tribe 
was  successful,  Kwasnid  the  victor,  and  when  they  con- 
gregated to  witness  the  laurel  placed  upon  the  brow  of  this 
doughty  buck,  all  were  there  and  Bena  stood  beside  her  loved 
Osseo. 

19 


The  chief  recounted  the  heroism  of  his  tribe  and  then 
turning  to  Kwasind  said: 

"And  now  my  vaHant  buck  what  would  you  ask  as  your 
prize?"  E'er  his  words  redeemed  a  truant  faith,  yet  with  tardy 
decision  he  repHed: 

"Let  Bena  be  my  squaw." 

In  an  instant  Bena  was  transformed  into  a  tigress,  she 
looked  more  like  a  vulture  than  the  placid  loving  soul  that  she 
was.    She  screamed  and  fell  in  a  swoon. 

Osseo,  maddened  with  a  rage  that  added  a  potent  fury 
to  passion,  made  a  dash  for  his  brutal  enemy.  They  clutched 
and  fought  furiously,  then  Kwasind  was  seen  to  raise  his 
tomahawk  and  fell  his  adversary  to  the  ground.  Osseo  was 
dead. 

The  lamentations  of  the  little  squaw  beggared  descrip- 
tion. She  lifted  her  dainty  bronzed  arms  to  the  Great  Spirit 
and  implored  His  revenge.  She  invoked  a  curse  to  blind  his 
hateful  eyes,  to  still  his  voice,  to  make  him  sterile  in  the  art 
of  war.  Then  she  became  calm,  her  soul  was  chastened  like 
the  wind  that  winnows  the  chaff  from  the  grain  and  in  this 
mood  of  ceaseless  pain  she  prayed  for  peace,  peace  eternal. 
Then  moving  slowly  towards  the  river's  edge  she  knelt  and 
as  she  leaned  forth,  again  cried  out  to  the  Great  Spirit  for 
peace,  peace,  and  then  plunged  into  the  river. 

The  following  day  gently  floating  down  the  stream  the 
stilled  form  of  Bena  with  a  mocking  smile,  her  hands  clasping 
a  twig  of  sumac,  moved  on  and  on.  She  was  at  peace  and  ever 
after  her  funeral  train  was  called  the  "Peaceful  River." 

"Another  such  jolt  as  that,  Ernest,  and  you  will  take  me 
home  in  a  wooden  kimona,"  said  Partner,  for  we  had  gone 
swiftly  over  a  bad  rut  in  the  road.  Bill  was  awakened,  he  had 
been  dreaming. 


20 


V. 

In  certain  parts  of  eastern  Massachusetts  there  is  probably 
more  of  the  primitive  life  to  be  found  than  in  any  other  part  of 
New  England,  but  even  in  these  beautiful  hills  quaint  and 
provincial  characters  will  be  encountered. 

We  will  call  him  Phil  for  the  purpose  of  this  narrative. 

It  seems  that  for  many  years  he  had  been  driving  a  milk 
wagon  throughout  the  country,  and  his  friends  and  neigh- 
bors thought  he  had  little  ambition,  that  as  he  had  reached 
the  first  quarter  of  a  century,  he  ought  to  look  forward  to 
something  a  little  more  pretentious,  but  Phil  was  content. 
One  day  he  resolved  to  study  and  to  take  the  civil  service 
examination  for  a  Government  berth.  By  dint  of  hard  work 
he  passed  and  then  sought  the  aid  of  the  Congressman  in  his 
district  for  a  job.  It  was  obtained  for  him  and  he  began  to 
bid  family  and  friends  good-bye.  He  went  to  Washington, 
entered  upon  the  duties  of  his  new  position  and  apparently 
liked  it.  After  an  absence  of  a  month  he  returned  and  re- 
sumed his  old  vocation  driving  the  milk  wagon.  One  of  his 
friends  saw  him  and  inquired  how  it  happened. 

"Thought  you  took  the  civil  service  examination,  Phil?" 

"Did." 

"And  I  thought  you  went  to  Washington  to  get  a  job 
there." 

"Did." 

"Why  didn't  you  stay  with  it?" 

"Didn't  want  to." 

"You  don't  say  so." 

"Yep.  Didn't  like  it.  Only  did  it  to  show  you  people 
what  I  could  do." 

The  afternoon  was  wearing  on  to  dusk  and  we  were  mak- 
ing for  Pittsfield  when  we  saw  a  lonely  Indian  in  the  road 
just  ahead  of  us.  Bill  was  anxious  to  pick  a  certain  flower 
that  had  engaged  his  attention  all  the  afternoon  so  the  ma- 
chine stopped  within  a  few  feet  of  the  redman. 

He  was  indeed  a  queer  character.  He  wore  a  slouch  hat, 
partly  covering  a  face,  the  charm  of  which  was  hideously  dis- 
torted by  ugly  scars  that  seemed  the  key  to  a  veiled  past  and 
an  unveiled  future.  A  face  that  offered  little  index  to  a  story 
that  may  have  been  heroic  or  melodramatic,  moved  one  min- 
ute by  an  expression  of  solemn  mien,  then  measurably  bright- 
ened by  a  forced  risibility,  followed  by  a  blending  of  both  in 

21 


a  peculiar  syncopated  or  jerky  expression  determining  the 
mental  and  physical  slave  that  he  was  to  the  fallen  estate  of 
mankind. 

"How  long  have  you  lived  in  these  woods?"  queried 
Partner. 

"Always." 

"And  what  do  you  do  for  a  livelihood?" 

"Anything." 

"Are  you  a  descendant  of  the  Mohawks?" 

"Guess  so." 

There  was  something  about  this  man  that  breathed  mys- 
tery. He  was  not  an  untutored,  ordinary  Indian,  and  if  he  had 
spoken  beyond  the  brief  replies  he  had  given,  a  story  might 
have  unfolded  or  perhaps  a  picture  presented  itself,  a  fitting 
companion  to  the  scene  around  us. 

Partner,  a  good  judge  of  human  nature,  looked  into  those 
eyes  and  thought  he  observed  an  unwritten  story  full  of 
cryptic  interest.  He  offered  the  Indian  a  cigar  which  was 
accepted  with  avidity.  It  was  the  latch  string  to  memory. 
It  released  the  vocal  chords,  it  created  a  strange  and  weird 
companionship.  He  became  communicative,  even  garrulous. 
They  talked  of  the  hills,  the  trees,  the  river,  and  finally  Bill 
suggested  that  the  fall  was  late  this  year.  Such  led  to  the 
autumnal  coloring  of  the  East,  how  different  from  the  West, 
and  it  was  suggested  that  the  cause  may  be  different.  Finally 
addressing  Partner,  he  said : 

"Have  you  heard  the  story  of  the  fall  coloring?" 

Here  surely  was  a  theme  to  be  seized  for  further  infor- 
mation. 

"Sit  down,  I'll  give  it  to  you,"  said  Scar  Face ;  and  this  is 
his  idea  of  the  legend  of  the  fall. 

"Once  upon  a  time  my  people  lived  here  in  their  sim- 
plicity, hunting  and  fishing  were  the  pastime,  and  save  an 
occasional  conflict  between  neighboring  tribes,  contentment 
abode  in  the  hills,  peace  and  plenty  moved  o'er  the  valley. 
Then  came  Pale  Face  to  mar  the  serenity  of  the  scene.  The 
poor  Indian  was  in  constant  conflict  with  the  invader  and 
each  time  lost  more  of  his  camping  ground.  One  day  a  big 
battle  was  fought.  The  Indians  were  securely  entrenched 
behind  a  wall  of  granite.  With  spears,  bows  and  arrows,  and 
with  dauntless  courage  as  a  shield  against  all  misfortune, 
they    awaited    the    attack    from    the    Pale    Face    who    were 

22 


approaching  from  the  open  valley.    As  they  reached  the  gate 
to  this  canyon  where  the  granite  shoulders  of  the  mountain 
seemed  to  make  their  position  an  impregnable  fortress,  the 
white  invaders  rushed  upon  them,  which  was  neither  more  nor 
less  than  an  attempt  to  lure  the  redmen  from  their  lair.    They 
accepted  the   challenge  and  went  forth.     The  fighting  was 
furious.    The  steady  aim  of  the  dauntless  bucks  brought  many 
foes  to  the  ground,  but  gunpowder  overcame  the  swiftness 
of  the  arrow.     The  Indians  were  vanquished.     The  redmen's 
blood  covered  the  ground  and  their  bones  lay  everywhere,  as 
monuments  to  a  heroic  past.  Their  flesh,  what  the  vultures  did 
not  eat,  remained  as  carrion  to  annoint  the  fields  and  fructify 
the  soil.    Their  blood  flowed  like  rivers,  sank  into  the  earth  to 
enrich  the  vegetation  of  the  hills.     The  trees  that  had  been 
monarchs  of  the  forest,  the  shrubs  that  frolicked  in  the  gentle 
breeze  along  the  river  banks,  the  foliage  that  hugged  the 
water's  edge  and  served  as  a  lacy  drape  to  screen  the  project- 
ing rocks,  the  graceful  sumac  that  fringed  the  lonely  trail — 
all  of  these  gifts  from  the  Great  Spirit  became  dwarfed  as  if 
cursed  by  the  ruthless  hand  of  Fate.    Even  the  vigorous  roots 
of  the  monarch  oak  absorbed  the  venom    of    the    wounds. 
After  winter  had  released  her  white  mantle  and  the  warmth 
of  summer  had  infused  a  recreated  life,  they  began  to  re- 
vive,  but  when  the  time   approached  to   commemorate   the 
events  of  the  preceding  year,  those  of  the  redmen  who  sur- 
vived, went  quietly  to  their  tents  to  hold  communion  with  the 
Great    Spirit.     Upon    return    to    the    open    glade    they    be- 
held a  different  scene.    The  ivy,  the  sumac  and  other  of  the 
lesser  habiliments  of  the  forest  had  taken  unto  themselves  a 
reddish  hue  and  when  the  trees  looked  to  the  floor  and  ob- 
served their  transformation  they  asked  why  their  compainons 
had  donned  a  many  colored  dress  in  place  of  the  green  of  the 
forest,  and  the  little  sapling,  the  clannish    sumac    and    the 
vagrant  shrub  told  them  it  was  to  commemorate  the  shedding 
of  the  redman's  blood.     In  the  flush  of  a  deep  sympathy  the 
trees  held  council  with    each    other    and    they  in  turn  fol- 
lowed by  assuming  new  robes.    At  first  the  green  was  tinged 
with  a  scarlet,  thence  to  a  crimson  and  finally  to  the  coat  of 
red. 

The  deepening  dusk  with  the  attenuating  outline  of  the 
village  checked  the  reverie,  for  such  was  the  story  of  the 
autumn. 

23 


VI. 

We  drove  into  Pittsfield  for  the  night.  Of  course  we 
saw  the  town  and  met  some  of  the  people,  but  it  was  not 
"towns"  that  interested  Bill.  Towns  are  apt  to  be  quite  the 
same  everywhere.  There  was,  however,  one  old  building 
that  Partner  wished  to  have  Bill  visit,  and  as  the  occupants 
were  cousins  of  Partner's  we  called  and  had  the  opportunity 
to  visit  the  old  Peace  House. 

The  Rectory  or  Peace  House  as  it  is  commonly  known 
is  where  the  famous  Peace  Party  was  held  to  celebrate  the 
surrender  of  Cornwallis  to  Washington.  It  is  a  quaint  old 
structure  with  its  many  rooms,  set  and  fixed  like  the  squares 
on  a  checker-board,  low  ceilings  and  open  conventional  hall  of 
that  period,  the  old  fashioned  narrow  staircasing,  a  parlor  and 
dining  room  on  one  side,  reception  and  other  rooms  opposite. 
There  was  the  typical  open  fire  place,  with  antique  andirons, 
quaint,  artistic  and  fascinating.  The  furniture  is  not  of  the 
early  times,  but  is  some  of  the  best  specimens  of  the  old 
school  design  and  much  of  it  is  indeed  old,  as  the  rich  tones 
of  the  mahogany  indicated. 

In  the  rear  is  the  study  and  up  stairs  are  many  bedrooms, 
each  with  its  bath  and  furnished  as  of  old  with  quaint  four- 
post  beds.  The  Bishop's  room,  well,  serenely  fashioned, 
stately  with  a  Bishoply  atmosphere. 

The  most  modern  furnishing  lay  quietly  ensconced  be- 
tween pillows  and  white  linen  in  a  cradle  of  modern  make, 
an  infant  totally  oblivious  of  Bill's  sympathetic  eyes.  What 
a  heritage  to  have  been  bom  and  reared  within  the  walls  of 
this  old  historic  manse. 

Suffice  to  say  that  the  parents,  host  and  hostess,  were 
charming  and  the  evening  was  one  of  pleasure.  Refinement 
and  culture,  and  withal  a  lively  sense  of  the  eternal  life,  were 
the  atmosphere  of  the  old  Rectory. 

While  it  is  true  that  four  only  engaged  the  conversation, 
yet  the  room  was  filled  to  overflowing  with  courageous  and 
noble  spirits  of  the  memorable  past,  and  each  impressed  his 
personality  in  a  manner  to  move  the  soul  to  a  reverence  for 
peace  and  good  will  on  earth. 

The  following  morning  we  got  an  early  start  because  we 
wished  to  make  New  Haven  by  3  o'clock  and  Ernest  knew 
what  to  do  and  how  to  do  it. 

24 


How  different  the  tones,  for  last  night  as  we  reached 
Pittsfield  it  was  a  saffron  toned  horizon  blending  with  the 
infinite  purple  that  clung  to  the  mountain  side,  but  in  the 
morning  the  first  gray  had  been  translated  into  the  golden 
flood  of  light. 

Speaking  of  tones,  the  people  of  the  East  do  not  know 
what  the  inspiring  purple  of  the  great  western  mountains 
really  is  or  how  it  influences  the  mind — possibly  it  is  accentu- 
ated by  the  height  and  ruggedness  of  the  mountains — ^but  it 
surely  is  different. 

It  was  a  beautiful  morning  and  the  thrush  andj  the 
meadow  lark  were  sending  their  melodies  through  the  hills, 
the  feathery  tamarack  nodded  as  we  passed  by  and  the  droop- 
ing willow  seemed  to  lift  its  delicate  tracery  to  peep  into  our 
faces  for  a  smile.  We  were  skirting  along  the  lower  shelf 
of  the  hillside  and  in  companionship  with  the  Hoosac  River. 
Then  we  came  to  a  turn  where  jutting  headlands  took  the 
view  from  us,  but  only  for  a  moment,  for  e'er  we  had  a 
chance  to  redirect  our  eyes  the  machine  entered  a  long  col- 
onade  of  white  birch  interspersed  with  the  elm,  maple, 
walnut — and  here  and  there  a  butternut,  all  forming  an  arch 
of  great  beauty.  It  was  not  altogether  the  trees  that  made 
it  so  enchanting  but  flowers  playing  the  coquette  at  every 
turn,  the  wild  aster,  white  balsam,  then  the  golden  rod  in 
goodly  numbers  until  in  the  distance  it  looked  not  a  little 
unlike  our  own  poppy  fields,  the  seductive  sumac  with  its 
pompon  of  dark  crimson  and  the  purple  dogwood.  Oh,  so 
much  to  gladden  the  eye,  and  just  after  we  had  entered  this 
arboreal  path,  we  saw  a  little  pool  to  the  right  in  which  the 
birds  were  supping  the  cool  water  and  taking  their  morning 
dip.  They  ceased  their  music  for  this  libation,  and  as  if  to 
bathe  their  forms  in  the  lustral  waters  of  the  gods. 

When  we  reached  Norfolk  the  road  forked  but  we  took 
the  southerly  one  towards  Torrington  striking  the  Connecti- 
cut Valley  and  a  beautiful  country  along  the  Naugatuck 
River,  passing  through  Torrington,  Thomaston  and  making 
for  Waterbury  where  we  were  to  luncheon. 

"Waterbury  has  something  on  every  man,"  is  a  slogan 
quite  unique,  for  they  make  about  everything  that  a  man 
has  on  his  person. 

We  partook  of  a  substantial  meal  at  The  Elton,  called 
by  some  the  most  attractive  hotel  in  New  England,  as  for 

25 


that  it  is  difficult  to  say  for  they  are  all  good,  some,  of  course, 
better  than  others. 

It  is  attractively  located  on  the  Green,  and  green  in  New 
England  means  something.  We  left  Waterbury  about  2 
o'clock  and  started  for  New  Haven.  All  along  the  Nauga- 
tuck  we  encountered  beautiful  spots.  Many  of  them  lay 
hidden  behind  clumps  of  maple  and  so  nestled  that  the  rap- 
idly moving  car  almost  precluded  observation.  Again  we 
passed  more  colonades  of  stately  trees  with  a  graceful  blend- 
ing of  color,  the  wild  flowers  nodding  to  the  passerby ;  now  a 
puny  stream  making  heroic  effort  to  become  a  creek  or  a 
mere  thread  of  a  creek  flowing  gently  through  some  flowered 
mead  or  moss  grown  glade,  then  bursting  upon  the  view 
were  the  beautiful  oak-clad  hills.  Again  there  was  the 
river  with  its  tortuous  turns,  some  of  these  bends  forming 
quiet  pools  where  the  cress-covered  waters  had  played  the 
fugitive  by  gently  backing  in  the  crescent  of  the  bank  and 
when  unbroken  by  the  cress  and  other  water  foliage,  mir- 
rored the  stately  elms. 

It  is  a  most  alluring  melody  that  reaches  the  ear  when 
you  approach  a  pool  into  which  is  rhythmically  dropping  a 
little  waterfall.  It  descends  gently  like  a  thin  veil  o'er  mi- 
lady's face,  then  in  a  rollicking  cascade  splashes  along  to 
take  another  dip  and  with  a  rush  reaches  the  river  where  it 
rolls  on  and  on.  Many  of  these  spots  are  enchanting  and 
infuse  a  sense  of  narcissal  luxury. 

We  now  commenced  to  see  the  first  touch  of  fall.  The 
night  before  the  frost  had  found  its  way  to  part  of  these  hills 
and  the  eye  feasted  on  the  suggestion  of  a  great  color  scheme. 
Sitting  beside  the  river  bank  was  a  pretty  picture;  a  young 
girl  of  about  seventeen,  possibly  less,  just  doing  nothing,  just 
sitting,  reminding  one  of  sweet  Diana  beside  the  running 
stream.  The  picture  was  heightened  in  its  effect  by  the  trees 
that,  reared  in  Memphian  grace,  formed  an  arch  over  the 
modern  Diana.  As  the  machine  made  the  curve  in  the  road 
beyond,  Bill  and  Partner  raised  their  hats,  not  with  an  af- 
fected civility  but  simply — well,  after  a  long  stretch  we  drove 
into  some  sheep  that  were  making  for  their  pasture  which 
was  surrounded  by  a  fen-land  of  some  beauty.  The  scene  was 
a  pleasant  contrast  by  removing  one  picture  and  substituting 
for  a  moment  one  of  bucolic  simplicity.  In  fact  you  could  al- 
most hear  the  cadence    of    the    shepherd's    reed.     One  little 

26 


sheep  lagging  behind  the  rest  stood  alone  beside  the  fence  and 
then  a  vagrant  bird  in  a  truant  flight  just  lit  upon  the  fence 
and  began  to  send  its  shrill  notes  into  the  ear  of  the  sheep, 
but  who  probably  was  totally  oblivious  of  its  tonal  charm. 

"Here,  Bill,"  said  Partner,  "how  is  that  for  autumnal  col- 
oring?" and  sure  enough  he  was  right.  While  the  ivy  and 
the  sumac  had  turned  some  few  days  before,  now  the  red  was 
on  the  maple  and  the  coloring  was  indeed  beautiful  although 
not  as  much  of  it  as  he  had  hoped.  Here  was  a  family  of 
maples  grouped  together  as  if  for  social  intercourse  or  pro- 
tection against  the  violent  elements  that  at  times  appear  to 
respect  nothing,  in  fact  there  were  two  beautiful  trees  near 
by  that  received  the  fatal  blow  from  the  fluid  fire  that  courses 
through  the  air. 

"Another  week,"  said  Partner,  "and  the  coloring  will  be 
more  plentiful  and  beautiful,  but  we  haven't  had  frost  enough 
yet,"  and  Bill  began  to  picture  the  whole  country  dressed  in 
its  autumnal  harmonies. 


27 


VII. 

Throughout  New  England  the  cemeteries  form  no  un- 
important part  of  the  villages  and  not  infrequently  has  the 
highway  been  cut  through  the  center  of  the  burying  ground. 

Some  of  these  silent  cities  were  indeed  beautiful,  and 
whether  laid  out  on  the  open  stretch  of  the  flat,  or  crowning 
hills  of  eternity,  the  simple  stones  with  their  quaint  inscrip- 
tions lent  a  charm  to  the  passing  scene. 

We  were  driving  through  one  of  these  beautiful  ceme- 
teries in  Connecticut  when  of  a  sudden  Ernest  threw  on  the 
brakes  and  brought  the  car  to  a  stop. 

A  peculiar  sight  was  revealed.  But  after  all  one  cannot 
take  a  trip  through  this  country  without  confronting  many 
peculiar  incidents.  Well,  as  it  is  related,  we  came  to  a  sud- 
den halt — just  think  of  it,  a  "dead"  stop  in  a  cemetery,  how 
funereal ! 

Just  ahead  of  us  in  the  open  road  appeared  the 

"DANCE  OF  THE  TOMBSTONES." 

Ernest  was  wise  and  knew  better  than  to  attempt  to 
force  the  machine  through  this  weird  throng  of  inanimate  and 
grotesque  terpsichoreans. 

The  stop  was  none  too  soon  for  lying  across  the  road 
and  almost  touching  the  wheels  of  the  machine  was  a  large 
marble  slab,  and  chiseled  upon  the  face  were  the  name  and 
dates  of  birth  and  death.  We  alighted  to  give  this  slab  a 
closer  examination  and  it  proved  to  be  that  of  an 
Obstructionist,  one  who  died  a  hundred  years  ago  and 
whose  life  had  been  devoted  to  the  work  of  constant  obstruc- 
tion. Just  a  little  beyond,  the  marble  figure  of  what  appeared 
to  be  a  witch  stood,  with  outstretched  arms  and  in  rather  a 
menacing  attitude. 

In  measured  monotones  we  heard  "Back,  you  modern 
devils,  back!"  For  just  a  moment  Partner  and  Bill  were  a 
little  unnerved,  for  while  the  sight  was  a  novelty  it  was  not 
particularly  inviting  or  amusing.  A  sense  of  humor,  how- 
ever, overcame  the  two  travelers  and  Partner,  who  has  an 
inquiring  turn  of  mind,  said  "Come  along.  Bill,  let's  look 
into  this." 

Of  course,  it  must  be  known  that  Partner  was  not  as 

28 


anxious  for  Bill's  judgment  upon  this  particular  phenomenon 
as  he  was  for  a  little  reinforcement. 

However,  both  walked  up  to  the  figure  which  bore  a 
name  obliterated  by  time,  but  it  was  quite  evident  that  it 
was  Intolerance.  The  whole  road  was  filled  with  these 
dancers,  here  and  there  were  observed  those  who  did  not 
partake  of  the  festivities,  but  one  notably  that  attracted  at- 
tention was  crouched  on  one  side  of  the  road.  The  features 
were  horribly  distorted.  It  had  been  many  years  since  that 
soul  had  passed  to  the  Great  Beyond  and  the  elements  had 
not  dealt  kindly  with  its  granite  form. 

By  a  closer  examination  it  was  easily  seen  that  this  was 
Jealousy,  still  nursing  the  same  old  grouch.  Then  attention 
was  attracted  to  two  marble  figures,  very  old  indeed,  in  fact 
the  oldest  of  them  all.  These  were  quietly  seated  on  the  rim 
of  the  road  ensconced  between  a  fugitive  rose  and  a  bunch  of 
wild  balsam,  immediately  back  of  which  was  a  stately  elm,  its 
branches  seeming  to  serve  as  sentinels  against  the  ugly  mien 
of  Jealousy. 

It  was  not  necessary  to  go  very  close  to  them  for  intui- 
tively we  knew  them  to  be  Love,  and  they  were — 

But  to  the  dance. 

As  related  it  was  weird  and  grotesque.  A  stately  column 
matched  with  a  broken  shaft  was  dancing  and  whirling,  totally 
oblivious  of  all  around.  The  forms  and  characters  of  these 
tombstones  were  varied.  Avarice  was  a  twisted  column.  Suc- 
cess and  Failure  were  in  spirited  conversation  and  around 
them  moved  these  weird  figures  as  if  to  invisible  music. 

A  rather  stately,  chaste  looking  marble  moved  up  to 
Partner,  made  a  courteous  bow  and  congratulated  him  upon 
the  beauty  of  his  car.  This  proved  to  be  Progress  and 
quite  affable.  A  short  stubby  piece  of  granite  rushed  forward 
and  in  a  piping  voice  wanted  to  know  what  that  "thing"  was, 
of  course  referring  to  the  machine.  Not  only  its  tone  but  its 
defiant  manner  proved  it  an  old  Puritan  of  the  nonprogressive 
type,  one  who  had  believed  that  all  things  up-to-date  were 
devils  incarnate,  and  notwithstanding  it  had  passed  away 
about  three  quarters  of  a  century  ago  it  was  still  vehement  in 
protest  and  curses  against  all  modern  progress.  Partner  in  a 
spirit  of  jocularity  spoke: 

"Why,  old  chap,  you  do  not  realize  what  has  gone  on 
since  your  day;  now  they  fly  in  the  air  and  sail  beneath  the 

29 


waves,  the  human  voice  is  carried  through  the  air  for  miles 
without  any  apparent  means  of  communication;  through  a 
simple  wire  we  can  converse  with  each  other  across  the  con- 
tinent; we  reproduce  music  or  the  human  voice  or  any  sound 
on  a  piece  of  compressed  rubber,  every  note  vibrates,  the 
intonation  perfectly  recorded.  Why  do  you  know — "  before 
Partner  could  proceed  further  with  the  galaxy  of  achieve- 
ments of  the  past  twenty  years  this  little  granite  stump  gave 
a  whirl,  a  spin,  fell  to  the  ground  and  was  broken  into  a 
thousand  pieces. 

The  gyrations  of  these  many  formed  marbles  continued 
to  fascinate  the  travelers  for  it  was  surely  a  medley  of  move- 
ments. Quite  as  quickly  as  the  dance  commenced  it  ceased 
and  each  assumed  its  customary  place.  The  silence  of  the 
tomb  again  would  have  become  oppressive  had  not  the  swiftly 
moving  messenger  passed  on  into  the  faithful  greens  and  reds 
of  nature. 


30 


VIII. 

The  roads  through  Connecticut  and  the  Berkshires  and 
also  from  New  Haven  to  New  York  are  especially  fine  and, 
apart  from  the  fascinating  environment,  the  car  runs  smoothly, 
without  effort  and  imparts  to  the  tourist  a  redeeming 
sense  of  satisfaction,  for  a  possibly  long  day  drive. 

Throughout  Connecticut  the  system  of  direction  is  both 
simple  and  unique.  The  pole  or  tree  or  whatever  is  designed 
to  carry  the  sign,  is  encircled  by  a  red  or  a  blue  band  about 
five  or  six  inches  wide  painted  thereon.  One  color  indi- 
cates the  northerly  and  southerly  direction  and  the  other 
color  the  easterly  and  westerly  direction,  so  that  the  tourist 
carrying  in  mind  the  color  will  always  know  whether  he  is 
going  north  or  south  or  to  the  other  points  of  the  compass. 
This  is  very  convenient,  but  to  a  stranger  the  absence  of  signs 
to  indicate  the  town  is  regrettably  noticeable. 

We  now  came  to  a  part  of  the  river  which  always  fasci- 
nates Bill:  where  the  logs  and  driftwood  congregate  for  any 
purpose  their  inanimate  forms  may  suggest.  You  do  not  see 
as  much  of  that  in  New  England  as  in  California  and  the 
West,  presumably  because  the  rivers  in  New  England  are 
power  producers,  but  driftwood  is  always  interesting  to  one 
accustomed  to  the  West  and  which  invariably  teaches  a  rich 
philosophy. 

In  this  instance  the  jam  was  not  a  very  large  one,  about 
a  dozen  logs  had  completely  dammed  the  throat  at  the 
bend  of  the  river.  In  their  rushing  course  down  the  stream 
they  came  pell-mell  forming  geometric  designs  and  so  inter- 
laced as  to  become  an  impregnable  barrier.  Says  Partner, 
"Look  at  those  two  little  fellows  trying  to  force  their  passage 
through  that  solid  wall  of  timber,  and  did  you  see  that 
little  one  forced  over  by  the  current?" 

"Yes,  and  look.  Partner,"  said  Bill,  "see  those  two  big 
fellows  just  abutting  against  the  wall.  They  came  down  with 
great  force,  but  they  couldn't  break  the  lock." 

"These  mute  logs  illustrate  the  law  of  co-operation 
and  the  power  of  resistance.  'Tis  not  the  atomic  strength 
but  the  unit  of  many  atoms  that  gives  that  wall  its  strength" 
said  Bill. 

31 


"Now  look"  interpleaded  Partner,  "those  poor  little 
timbers  floating  idly  must  respond  to  force  and  stay  where 
they  are  put." 

"That's  very  good"  responded  Bill,  "  *stay  where  they  are 
put'  has  a  dynamic  meaning." 

Then  a  little  further  on,  a  log  unaccompanied  by  a  com- 
panion just  floated  leisurely  and  indifferently  tossed  by  the 
current  from  one  side  to  the  other,  then  again  released  by  the 
moving  water  to  continue  its  purposeless  journey. 

"How  true  that  is  in  life,"  said  Bill,  "one  poor  soul  is 
tossed  about  with  little  opportunity  to  guide  itself." 

"Yes,  Bill,  that  is  true"  said  Partner,  "but  a  whole  lot  of 
them  just  float,  waiting  for  some  other  influence  to  push  them 
on. 

These  speculations  were  interrupted  by  a  quaint  old- 
fashioned  house  engaging  our  attention.  It  was  erected  about 
1690  and  as  we  were  informed  was  the  scene  of  many  historic 
incidents  and  the  following  may  interest  the  reader. 

The  architecture  of  this  building  was  that  which  ante- 
dated the  later  Colonialism  of  stately  columns.  The  door  was 
flush  with  the  front  of  the  building,  but  was  graced  by  curves 
and  lines  of  artistic  merit.  The  occupants  were  an  old  Eng- 
lish family  consisting  of  the  parents  and  a  daughter  of  rare 
beauty  and  charm  of  manner.  Her  hand  was  sought  by  a 
young  lieutenant,  a  representative  of  the  crown.  One  day  he 
sat  with  the  chief  of  one  of  the  Indian  tribes  recounting  his 
ambition  to  win  the  hand  of  his  young  lady  and  sitting  near 
by  was  a  medicine  man  who  overheard  the  story.  The  latter 
rather  liked  the  lieutenant  and  resolved  to  help  him.  Accord- 
ingly he  managed  to  meet  the  young  lady  on  various  occasions 
and  impressed  her  with  his  great  power  of  sorcery  and  divi- 
nation. He  told  her  that  he  could  make  her  see  her  lover, 
the  man  whom  she  ought  to  marry,  and  that  if  she  did  not 
accept  the  one  who  would  appear  in  her  dream  she  would 
be  miserable  the  remainder  of  her  life,  but  that  if  she  did 
marry  the  one  depicted  in  this  dream  she  would  live  an 
Arcadian  existence.  The  wiley  old  buck  finally  induced  her 
to  let  him  try.  Now  the  Indian  medicine  man  is  not  a  doctor 
as  the  name  would  imply,  but  rather  a  "mystery  man,"  a 
magician.  The  word  is  adapted  from  the  French  whose  doctor 
or  physician  is  medectn*  She  agreed  to  meet  the  medicine 
man  at  the  appointed  time  and  place  and  when  she  arrived  he 

32 


had  prepared  the  paraphernalia  consisting  of  a  large  caldron  or 
bowl  into  which  he  poured  several  liquids  and  this  mixed  with 
some  herbs  was  set  on  fire  and  sent  a  pungent  odor  through 
the  air.  He  then  commenced  his  incantations  over  the  burn- 
ing pot-pourri  at  the  same  time  mumbling  some  Indian  names 
and  words,  and  passed  her  a  little  vial  containing  a  dram  of 
rather  a  pleasing  taste  which  she  drank  and  immediately  she 
became  lulled  by  countless  imagery  into  a  sweet  and  passing 
dream.  In  this  dream  she  saw  the  lieutenant  pleading  for 
her  hand,  then  her  acceptance  and  finally  the  happy  marriage. 
When  she  came  out  of  the  trance  she  recited  to  the  medicine 
man  what  she  had  seen  and  then  returned  to  her  home  mysti- 
fied but  none  the  less  elated.  Within  a  few  days  thereafter 
the  lieutenant  called,  and  unknowing  of  what  had  transpired, 
pressed  his  suit  and  was  accepted.  Then  commenced  a  love 
making  that  out-romeoed  Romeo.  He  plead  that  her  voice 
had  taught  his  heart  to  throb  and  that  in  the  dead  of  night 
the  memory  of  her  voice  had  lulled  him  to  sleep  as  if  by  sweet 
harmonies  from  out  the  Dorian  lute. 

It  appears  that  the  medicine  man  had  a  wife,  a  squaw 
also  skilled  in  the  necromancy  of  the  red-man.  Having  heard 
from  her  buck  the  story  of  the  young  lady,  she  sought  the 
lieutenant  and  likewise  impressed  him  with  her  power  of 
divination.  She  told  him  that  she  could  bring  to  his  vision 
the  true  picture  of  the  woman  he  loved,  but  who  did  not  love 
him  in  return,  and  this  she  could  prove.  It  appears  that 
there  was  another  officer  in  the  regiment  who  had  met  this 
young  lady  but  was  not  known  to  have  called  upon  her. 
However,  the  medicine  woman  induced  the  lieutenant  to  test 
her  power.  The  same  ceremony  was  performed  as  with  his 
lady  love  and  then  he  likewise  partook  of  the  contents  of  a 
vial,  a  mixture  of  soporific  herbs.  The  incantations,  and 
mumblings  accompanied  by  a  weird  dance  were  performed 
and  concluding,  she  passed  her  hands  over  his  face  and 
he  awakened.  He  recounted  his  dream,  to  the  effect  that  he 
saw  the  other  officer  making  love  to  his  intended  bride,  she 
caressing  him  in  just  such  fashion  as  was  her  wont  with  the 
lieutenant.  The  medicine  woman  gazed  with  a  mocking 
stare  as  if  to  cloak  her  crimes  with  cunning  smiles.  He  re- 
turned to  his  room  and  sat  throughout  the  weary  night  think- 
ing of  what  he  had  seen,  with  eyelids  dry  for  want  of  tears, 
tears  that  would  bring  to  this  yearning  heart  some  little  con- 


33 


solation.  Despair  was  slowly  sapping  the  sweetness  of  spring 
to  leave  the  autumnal  change  its  moiety,  e'er  the  winter  came 
to  chill  his  love. 

Without  much  of  an  explanation  he  broke  the  engage- 
ment. .Her  reason  became  dethroned  and  for  a  while  her  life 
was  in  the  balance.  The  medicine  man  learned  of  his  squaw's 
perfidy  and  he  at  once  went  to  the  parents  of  the  young  lady 
and  recited  the  case  in  all  its  details.  He  told  them  he  could 
restore  the  reason  of  their  daughter  and  likewise  the  lieuten- 
ant's love.  They  yielded  and  the  medicine  man  went  through 
his  weird  ceremonies  and  again  her  mind  became  bright,  her 
cheeks  assumed  their  accustomed  glow  and  he  brought  back 
to  her  the  love  of  the  lieutenant — more  ardent  than  ever. 


34 


IX. 


Moving  on,  now  rising  to  a  height  enabling  the  eye  to 
feast  upon  a  richly  carpeted  country  below,  then  descending 
to  the  valley  hidden  in  the  elms,  passing  towns  where  the 
commercial  is  the  quickening  sense  and,  by  the  way,  speaking 
of  commerce  one  can't  help  but  reflect  that  the  railroads  get 
them  coming  and  going.  They  haul  the  raw  material  to  these 
great  factories,  wait  until  the  machine  spins  it  into  the  finished 
product  and  then  quietly  haul  it  to  the  market.  Like  the 
country  fair  "pay  to  get  in  and  pay  to  get  out." 

"What's  that  mean?"  queried  Bill,  referring  to  a  sign 
"Thank  you." 

"Why"  responded  Partner,  "the  town  asks  you  to  slow 
down  to  ten  miles  an  hour  and  then  as  you  go  out  they  thank 
you. 

It  was  just  at  this  point  when  Partner  cautioned  Ernest 
to  slow  down:     "Don't  you  recognize  this  point?" 

It  happened  this  way:  Partner  and  his  chauffeur  were 
speeding  along  one  of  the  famous  roads  of  Connecticut  when 
they  were  hailed  and  told  to  report  to  the  court  the  following 
morning.  In  New  England  as  much  as  in  other  parts  of  the 
country,  the  motor  police  are  quite  as  indifferent  to  the  fate 
of  the  motorist  as  the  latter  is  to  the  average  pedestrian,  so 
when  Partner  was  ordered  to  stop,  it  was  to  comply. 

The  amusing  part  of  this  story  is  that  in  this  Connecticut 
Court  the  preponderance  of  evidence  had  little  effect  upon 
the  learned  judge.  Ernest  is  a  careful  driver  and  he  knows 
his  machine,  he  also  knows  the  roads,  like  the  Mississippi 
skipper  that  Mark  Twain  tells  about,  "he  doesn't  always  know 
where  the  rocks  are,  but  he  surely  knows  where  they  aint." 

Ernest  took  the  stand  in  his  own  behalf  and  testified  that 
just  as  the  officer  called,  he  looked  at  the  speedometer  and  it 
registered  a  trifle  over  thirty  miles  an  hour,  and  when  Partner 
assumed  the  role  of  witness  he  corroborated  the  testimony  of 
his  chauffeur.  The  minion  of  the  law,  however,  contradicted 
that  evidence  and  said  he  recorded  the  machine  as  going  forty- 
one  miles.  Here  the  evidence  rested  in  the  scales  of  justice, 
two  to  one,  and  the  standing  of  Partner  and  the  excellent 
record  of  Ernest  should  have  been  taken  into  consideration, 
but  would  you  believe  it,  the  judge  adopted  the  testimony  of 
the  officer,   enjoying,   undoubtedly,   that  vested  privilege  of 

35 


passing  upon  the  credibility  of  witness.  Ernest  was  fined 
fifty  dollars  and  costs. 

Of  course,  they  have  no  speed  law  in  Connecticut,  and 
Ernest  was  within  the  law  even  at  forty-one  miles.  The  law 
is  silent  on  the  subject  of  speed,  but  if  you  do  any  damage, 
as  Partner  says,  "It's  all  up  with  little  Willie." 

"But"  interposed  the  learned  counsel  for  Ernest,  "if,  your 
Honor,  there  is  no  limit  under  the  law,  how  could  defendant 
know  that  he  was  violating  the  statute  of  this  Common- 
wealth?" 

"Once  upon  a  time  a  person  was  killed  on  that  road" 
replied  the  Court,  "by  a  big  machine  going  forty  miles  an 
hour,  and  this  machine  was  going  forty  miles,  therefore  some- 
one might  have  been  killed  by  this  machine." 

This  was  the  inexorable  logic  of  the  case  at  bar,  and 
counsel  recalled  the  dictum  of  Lord  Holt  that  "law  is  reason." 

However,  as  it  is  related,  a  fine  was  imposed  and  con- 
sidering the  fact  that  the  majesty  of  the  law  might  further  have 
been  conserved  by  an  additional  penalty  of  ten  days  in  jail, 
Partner  looked  pleasant,  paid  the  fine,  which  amount  was 
endorsed  on  the  license.  This  little  formality  is  deemed  wise 
that  when  application  is  made  for  its  renewal  the  record 
denotes  whether  the  chauffeur  is  a  safe  driver.  In  fact  pre- 
cisely like  endorsing  a  partial  payment  on  the  back  of  a  note 
— it  lessens  its  value. 

Driving  on,  about  twenty  miles  an  hour,  we  observed 
some  pretty  colorings  along  the  road,  with  here  and  there  a 
little  pool  to  lend  a  charm  to  the  scene.  Finally  we  stopped 
to  view  the  dainty  bed  of  wild  flowers  that  ere  long  would 
croon  their  vespers  to  the  sun  and  then  close  their  tiny  petals 
for  the  night.  At  this  time  of  the  year  they  seemed  to  huddle 
together  in  clusters,  lest  the  touch  of  frost  might  make  their 
passing  too  lonely.  A  wild  daisy  here  and  there,  hugging  the 
ground,  tempted  Partner  to  its  plucking.  "Why  disturb  me" 
in  chiding  tones,  came  to  the  vandal's  ear.  "You  would  hazard 
the  supremest  joy  of  the  traveler  to  count  a  moment  only  of 
your  gain." 

Bill  plucked  a  pom-pon  from  the  sumac,  to  learn  the 
wisdom  from  the  flowers.  "Once  break  my  stem  and  your 
prize  is  shortlived.  Why  not  leave  me  to  enrich  the  road  and 
thus  make  your  passage  one  of  pleasure,"  a  rebuke  that  made 
the  ravisher  hesitate  indeed. 

36 


"But"  said  Bill,  "your  life  is  but  a  transient  one  and  your 
companionship  means  much  to  me." 

"Ah,  yes,"  replied  the  sumac,  "but  you  forget  that  we  are 
for  the  many,  not  for  you  alone." 

Then  the  silver-weed  that  fringes  the  water's  edge,  the 
balsam,  the  purple  dogwood  and  the  wormwood  in  its  yellow 
dress,  each  in  chorus  chided  the  travelers  for  their  wanton 
greed.  True,  that  reproof  becomes  the  shield  to  stop  the 
arrow's  flight  and  so  the  despoilers  ceased  the  rape  of  the 
flowers,  for  just  then  the  liquid  tones  of  the  passing  thrush 
and  the  carol  of  the  lark  were  blended  in  a  chorus  of  song 
that  made  the  travelers  ashamed. 

"What  point  is  that?"  asked  Bill. 

"That  is  East  Rock"  said  Partner,  for  we  were  now 
approaching  New  Haven,  and  sure  enough  we  were  home 
again. 

Another  delightful  evening  in  the  home  of  Yale;  and  the 
following  morning  we  started  for  New  York  via  Milford, 
Stratford  and  Bridgeport,  thence  to  Norwalk,  Stamford  and 
Greenwich,  the  two  latter  being  very  beautiful  places. 

Partner  had  a  friend  by  the  name  of  Ham,  who  wished  to 
accompany  us  to  New  York.  Now,  of  course,  Ham  is  not  his 
full  name,  but  just  the  same  he  was  a  good  old  scout.  He 
could  tell  a  good  story,  sing  and  play  poker.  By  the  way, 
playing  auto  poker  is  some  fun.  Instead  of  cards  we  used  the 
numbers  of  the  on-coming  cars.  First  Bill  would  call  and 
sure  enough  the  number  was  66320,  a  pair  of  sixes ;  then  Ham 
got  three  of  a  kind,  but  for  quite  a  while  the  luck  seemed  to 
be  against  Partner.  Finally  his  turn  came  and  four  sixes  passed 
to  his  credit  and  so  on  for  about  three  hours.     Some  game! 

Moving  along  the  road  just  before  reaching  the  confines 
of  New  York,  we  observed  a  sentinel  seated  by  a  lonely  tree, 
who  moved  into  the  lane  and  hailed  us: 

"Have  you  any  babies  in  that  car?" 

"No",  responded  Partner. 

"What's  that  for"  asked  Bill. 

"Infantile  paralysis"  responded  the  guardian  of  the  health. 

We  drove  about  two  miles  further  on  and  came  to  a  fork 
in  the  road  where  we  were  again  stopped,  and  a  representative 
of  the  health  department  stepped  up  to  the  car,  looked  into 
it  and  simply  said  "Move  on." 

We  commenced  a  song  and  it  finally  dawned  upon  Bill 

37 


that  each  time  he  started  to  sing,  Partner  always  had  some- 
thing to  which  our  attention  should  be  called  along  the  road- 
side. Now  Bill  thinks  he  can  sing  just  about  as  well  as  Part- 
ner, but — 

Another  hand  went  up  and  Partner  arose  and  made  a 
gesture  to  the  "cop"  that  all  was  well — adding — "We  have  no 
babies  in  here." 

"Shure  an'  I'll  decide  that  for  myself,"  and  after  looking 
into  the  car,  moved  us  on  with — "Don't  catch  the  py-ralasis." 

Now  what  do  you  think  of  that,  and  for  a  mile  or  so  we 
tried  to  settle  the  question  as  to  whom  he  referred,  one  or  all. 

Well,  here  is  gay  old  New  York,  the  most  fascinating, 
the  most  brutal  and  the  most  provincial  city  in  the  country. 

Au  Revoir! 


38 


L'ENVOI 


Rufus,  Oh  yes,  it  is  unrelated  that  Rufus  is  the  dog.  Well, 
he  is  an  enigma.  Who  his  parents  were  is  not  of  record,  but 
he  is  some  dog  just  the  same — "some  dog."  Partner  calls 
him  a  cock-tail  and  when  questioned  as  to  just  what  kind  of 
a  dog  that  is,  he  smiled  and  replied  "a  grand  mixture." 

His  owner  is  not  at  all  sensitive  about  the  animal.  He 
says  himself  that  no  one  would  give  five  cents  for  the  dog, 
but  that  he  would  not  take  five  hundred  dollars  for  him.  A 
neighbor  once  remarked  that  he  would  like  to  own  half  of  the 
animal,  and  Partner  began  to  swell  with  pride.  "Why,  what 
on  earth  would  you  do  with  one-half  of  the  dog?" 

"Shoot  my  half,"  came  the  laconic  reply. 

However,  Rufus  has  more  sense  than  a  great  many  people 
who  pat  him  on  the  back.  Why,  that  dog  will  sit  quietly 
throughout  a  dinner  and  never  make  a  sound  or  move,  but  just 
as  soon  as  the  maid  removes  the  roast  from  the  table,  Rufus 
quietly  hikes  to  the  kitchen.  "Some  intelligence,"  says  Part- 
ner. You  know  you  can*t  help  becoming  attached  to  an  animal 
like  that,  for  as  Partner  says — "He  knows  when  to  leave  the 
table."  Of  course  that  remark  may  have  had  some  signifi- 
cance although  Partner  was  looking  straight  at  the  dog  when 
he  said  it. 

Bill  and  Rufus  became  warm  friends  and  learned  to 
understand  each  other  quite  well.  At  first  the  dog  had  his 
doubts  and  was  rebellious,  but  before  Bill  left,  Rufus  would 
eat  out  of  his  hand. 


40 


XI. 


Talk  about  shore  dinners,  well  that  is  the  piece  de  resist- 
ance  in  the  cuisine  of  the  New  Englander. 

We  drove  to  the  shore  of  Long  Island  Sound,  just  out  of 
Norwalk,  and  Partner,  with  wise  discrimination,  had  prepared 
for  the  event,  and  some  preparation  it  was. 

As  we  entered  the  dining-room  the  ladies  were  seated, 
and  our  host  invited  the  gentlemen  to  meet  two  old  pals  of  his. 
He  premised  the  introduction  by  stating  that  they  were  quaint 
characters,  that  he  had  met  these  two  brothers  in  a  trip  up 
the  Nile  some  years  previous  and  they  became  fast  friends. 
They  had  tastes  quite  in  common  and  when  Partner  likes  any 
one,  he  likes  him  through  and  through,  and  then  some.  So  as 
it  is  related,  he  was  anxious  that  Bill  from  California  should 
shake  hands  with  his  old  pals  from  Egypt.  As  we  stepped 
into  the  other  room — Partner,  says  he,  "Where  are  the  twins?" 
The  gentleman  accosted  gave  a  well  modulated  call,  when  in 
stepped  the  two  brothers.  En  passant,  it  might  be  well  to 
relate  that  they  were  twins,  rather  short  of  stature,  a  little 
"pinched"  in  expression  and  from  the  aroma,  one  would  sus- 
pect that  they  were  some  smokers,  their  complexion  sandy 
as  their  name  would  indicate.  They  were  the  embodiment  of 
good  cheer,  rollicking  good  fellows,  and  one  immediately 
became  inoculated  at  the  first  introduction.  They  made  you 
laugh,  were  exhilarating,  and  in  short  were  such  to  which  you 
wished  to  tie.  However,  Partner  took  hold  of  Bill's  arm,  led  him 
up  to  his  friends  and  with  that  general  fellowship — "Bill,  meet 
my  good  friends  Haig  and  Haig!" 

Oh  yes,  the  dinner!     My  yes! 

Well,  first  was  served  clams  on  the  half  shell,  then  a  clam 
chowder.  The  Connecticut  chowder!  By  the  way,  the  man 
from  the  Nutmeg  State  thinks  that  that  is  the  only  chowder 
made.  Personally  Bill  expressed  a  preference  for  the  Massa- 
chusetts chowder  where  you  get  an  opportunity  to  see  the 
clam  frequently,  and  not  be  compelled  to  play  hide  and  seek 
with  it.  However,  the  chowder  was  all  that  they  claimed  for 
it.    Then  followed  steamed  little-necks,  a  meal  in  themselves. 

The  fourth  course  was  blue  fish  broiled,  and  served  meu- 
niere,  fit  for  the  gods.  At  these  shore  dinners  they  are  very 
apt  to  serve  what  the  Easterner  considers  a  delicate  morsel, 

41 


and  that  is  the  shad,  but  Bill  hates  the  bones  and  the  blue  fish 
was  a  very  delightful  substitute. 

Broiled  live  lobster,  just  think  of  it,  after  what  pre- 
ceded. At  this  juncture  it  is  deemed  quite  au  fa.ii  to  depart 
from  the  fish  diet,  and  a  broiled  squab  is  served,  followed  by 
a  salad  of  tomato  and  cucumber. 

With  this  repast  was  served  Shelter  Island  corn,  steamed, 
not  boiled,  for  thereby  is  the  delicious  flavor  of  the  corn  pre- 
served, but  such  corn !  It  is  worth  a  trip  across  the  continent 
to  indulge  one's  appetite  in  corn,  although  the  Golden  Ban- 
tam is  the  best  and  most  luscious,  yet  all  corn  in  the  East 
seems  to  suggest — "come  again."  Well,  now  it  is  proper  to 
partake  of  a  light  dessert,  such  as  ice  cream  or  watermelon, 
with  a  little  cheese  and  cracker  and  then  the  demi-tasse.  Wine 
(et  tu  Brute)  is  served  for  the  stomach's  sake  and  after  all 
this,  you  have  performed  a  gastronomic  feat  that  one  never 
can  forget. 

Now  just  go  over  this  menu  once  more,  that  is,  read  it 
once  again  and  try  to  comprehend  what  a  shore  dinner  means. 
You  cannot  assimilate  the  idea,  the  food — yes.  But  one  thing 
sure,  when  you  have  finished  this,  you  feel  satiated  and  there 
is  a  suggestion  of  abdominal  rotundity  which  lingers  for  some 
few  hours  thereafter. 


42 


XII. 

Several  books  had  been  suggested  to  Bill  with  which  to 
pass  the  lagging  hours  across  the  continent.  In  a  general  way 
he  remembered  their  titles  and  resolved  to  purchase  one  the 
first  opportunity,  so  when  he  visited  a  large  store  and  reached 
the  book  department,  he  was  ushered  into  a  rare  atmosphere 
of  refined  intolerance.  What  else  could  one  expect  from  the 
spirit  of  a  Luther,  Jeremy  Taylor,  Nordeau,  Spencer,  Tom 
Paine  and  the  infinite  number  of  latter  day  saints  of  literature, 
more  or  less  broad  or  narrow.  He  at  once  realized  that  he 
was  in  the  presence  of  the  master  minds,  past  and  present. 
What  an  atmosphere,  what  an  inspiration!  Ere  he  proceeded 
far,  a  peculiar  incident  occurred,  a  measurably  embellished  vol- 
ume moved  from  its  emplacement,  opened  its  covers  as  a  greet- 
ing, and  commenced  to  discuss  the  war.  Then  a  rather  unassum- 
ing volume  exclaimed,  "Beware  these  conventional  lies."  Well 
Bill  knew  Max  Nordeau  by  his  voice,  it  was  a  voice  of  protest. 
Then  two  steps  to  the  right  and  a  little  dusty  volume,  with  a 
gray-bluish  cover  bowed  in  acknowledgment  of  Bill's  curious 
gaze.  The  bow  was  courtly  and  such  a  one  as  the  author 
must  have  had  in  mind  when  he  penned  the  opening  para- 
graph of  his  "Advancement  of  Learning"  for  it  was  none  other 
that  Francis  Bacon.  Bill  was  a  little  inclined  to  be  facetious, 
but  the  learned  volume  precluded  it:  "Phoebus,  with  thy 
darts  revenge  our  tears,"  came  forth  in  measured  tones  and 
left  Bill  to  speculate  as  to  whether  it  was  intended  to  refer 
to  the  current  controversy  as  to  the  authorship  of  Shakespeare. 

Now  Bill  was  just  about  to  say  that  for  years  he  had 
become  convinced  that  Shakespeare  was  not  the  author,  but 
that  his  incomplete  reading  prevented  him  from  becoming  a 
Baconian  partisan.  Then  also  he  was  on  pleasure  bent  and 
not  inclined  to  controversial  subjects,  but  he  was  wise  to  hold 
his  peace  and  thus  prevent  Bacon  from  coming  back  in  a  more 
effective  and  facetious  mood  by  quoting  Demosthenes'  retort 
to  Aeschinus,  a  man  of  pleasure  who  taunted  the  great  orator 
that  "his  speeches  smelt  of  the  lamp."  "There  is  a  great  dif- 
ference between  the  objects  which  you  and  I  pursue  by  lamp- 
light," said  the  great  Athenian. 

In  dulcet  tones  from  apparently  nowhere — "Are  you  look- 
ing for  anything  in  particular?"  came  to  Bill's  ears  and  he 

43 


turned  to  observe  a  most  charming  pair  of  brown  eyes  looking 
into  his  blue  searchers. 

"Yes,  if  you  please,  'Woman's  Eyes/  " 

"Again,  please,"  came  in  a  sweet  and  modulated  voice. 

"  'Woman's  Eyes'  "  repeated  Bill. 

"By  whom?" 

Now  Bill  thought  a  moment  and  wondered  if  he  had 
gotten  the  wrong  title.  "Why,  by  Harold  Bell  Wright"  said 
he. 

"Don't  you  mean  *Eyes  of  the  World?'" 

"Possibly,  but  is  there  any  difference?" 

With  remarkable  composure,  she  smiled,  colored  a  trifle 
and  proceeded  to  bring  the  book  and — ^the  eyes  also. 

As  she  handed  him  the  book  and  received  the  price,  she 
remarked:  "I  should  like  to  be  in  a  position  to  present  that 
copy  to  you." 

Bill  was  himself  a  little  doubtful  as  to  how  much  of  a 
hit  he  had  made.  Thanking  her  and  with  a  courteous  bow, 
took  his  departure  and  as  he  neared  the  end  of  the  section,  a 
well  bound  volume  of  Emerson  made  obeisance  to  the  cus- 
tomer, opened  its  covers  and  simply  remarked:  "He  builded 
better  than  he  knew." 

"Down." 

Bill  took  the  elevator  and  was  again  in  the  busy  and 
vulgar  street. 

"Woman's  Eyes"— no,  "Eyes  of  the  World." 

"Look  out,  can't  you  see  where  you  are  going,  want  to 
be  run  over?" 

How  could  he? 


44 


XIII. 


Standing  behind  the  cigar  stand  was  a  very  charming  bit 
of  femininity,  with  a  pair  of  large  blue  eyes  and  a  complexion 
to  indicate  Irish  parentage.  Well,  she  looked  pretty  good  to 
Bill  and  his  Partner — a  fresh  look,  but  not  of  manner,  rather 
cultivated  you  would  say. 

Bill  did  not  dare  to  look  into  those  orbs  of  blue,  they 
were  not  the  cerulean  blue,  but  the  real  blue  blue.  Well,  be 
that  as  it  may,  says  Bill,  pointing  to  some  cigars  in  the  case, 
"Two  of  those,  please."  Now  he  is  used  to  having  the  box 
passed  out,  taking  the  cigars  himself  therefrom,  but  "Blue 
Eyes"  pushed  her  hand  into  the  case,  took  out  the  two  cigars 
and  passed  them  over  the  counter  to  Bill.  If  it  were  not  for 
his  observing  nature,  this  offense  might  have  been  con- 
doned, he  had  not  the  courage  to  suggest  to  Blue  Eyes  that 
the  box  be  presented  to  him.  When  she  handed  the  cigars 
over  the  counter,  her  hands  were  very  soiled  and  her  nails 
had  not  been  cleaned  for  many  a  moon. 

As  the  two  were  passing  out  of  the  door  of  the  hotel.  Bill 
was  seen  to  nod  to  the  bell-boy  and  pass  him  a  cigar,  and  then, 
"Oh,  yes ;  give  this  one  to  the  elevator-boy  for  me."  Bill  and 
his  Partner  entered  the  car  and  started  out  for  their  day's 
journey.  One,  two  and  three  miles  according  to  the  speedo- 
meter, and  not  a  word,  but  there  are  times  in  one's  life  when 
events  or  scenes  flash  before  the  mind  and  find  anchorage 
there. 

Says  Bill,  "Do  you  know,  I  was  much  disappointed  in 
those  blue  eyes." 

"Eyes  or  hands.  Bill?" 

"Well,  I  expected  something  different." 

"And  you  got  it"  came  Partner's  quick  retort.  "When 
traveling  in  Ireland"  continued  Partner,  "I  was  given  a  jolt 
once  not  so  very  much  removed  from  your  case  and  a  friend 
of  mine  expressed  it  in  verse." 

"Don't  suppose  you  remember  it"  said  Bill. 

"I  think  so"  said  Partner,  and  proceeded  to  recite. 


45 


THE  MAID  OF  MALLEROOK 

There  sat  a  maid,  a  dainty  nymph, 

Beside  the  running  brook; 
Her  face  was  fair  to  look  upon, 
Her  form  a  perfect  paragon, 

The  Maid  of  Mallerook. 

I  moved  by  stealth,  up  to  her  side, 

Just  o'er  the  running  brook; 
A  matchless  beauty  was  reveal'd. 
An  eloquence  of  thought  conceal'd, 

This  Maid  of  Mallerook. 

As  if  'twere  Lethe  running  there. 
This  gentle,  flowing  brook;   ; 
I  supped  this  cool  and  magic  stream, 
And  lo!  all  else  was  but  a  dream, 
Oh!  Maid  of  Mallerook. 

And  when  she  gazed  into  mine  eyes, 

'Twas  by  the  running  brook; 
A  tear  was  there,  her  cheek  to  lave. 
Thought  I  how  proud  to  be  her  slave, 
Dear  Maid  of  Mallerook. 

Then  spoke  I  to  this  dainty  nymph, 

Close  by  the  babbling  brook; 
"What  thought  is  passing  through  thy  mind, 
"What  hope  may  I,  now  therein  find" 
Sweet  Maid  of  Mallerook? 

Her  eyes  were  bright  as  Heaven's  gems. 

Just  gazing  o'er  the  brook; 
And  when  they  looked  into  mine  own, 
The  seed  of  love  was  therein  sown. 

Fond  Maid  of  Mallerook. 


46 


In  rapture,  stood  I  there  the  nonce, 

Down  by  the  quiet  brook ; 
And  measured  strength,  by  sigh  and  tear, 
Awaiting  her  reply  with  fear; 

Speak!     Maid  of  Mallerook. 

Then  straightway  turned  the  maid  to  me, 

Yet  sitting  by  the  brook; 
"Yous  lobsters  aint  no  good,"  she  said, 
"So  quit  yer  kiddin',  mutton-head," 

Quoth,  Maid  of  Mallerook. 

Then  down  the  lane  I  strolled  alone, 

Along  the  singing  brook; 
Yea,  "mutton-head"  and  "lobster"  too, 
Are  much  too  good  for  me  and  you, 
If  thus  we  chance,  the  fool  to  do. 

Wise  Maid  of  Mallerook. 


47 


AFTER-WORD 

By  the  wooded  banks  the  gentle  stream  goes  moving  on. 
The  hills  of  beauty,  the  vales  of  song  and  the  leaf  of  color 
yet  abide,  while  the  spirit  of  the  West  enshrined  in  fabled 
dreams  still  lingers  o'er  that  scen^  and  then  reluctantly  moves 
westward  to  their  sister  charms. 


48 


Privately  published  and  this  volume  is 

jvb. 2  0  F' 


YC   15528 


355991 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFORNIA  LIBRARY 


